


Before It's Too Late

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Mutilation, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the k!meme:  <i>Carver has taken a bride in Ferelden and Leandra has gone to spent a season or two with him, leaving Hawke behind.</i></p><p><i>Hawke looks so much like her mother.</i></p><p><i>Quentin agrees.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"If they're not dead, watch out for a bunch of boneless women flopping through the streets," Kit quipped, drawing a look of censure from Fenris, a roll of the eyes from Anders, and a cheeky grin from Isabela.

Emeric was not amused. "Show some respect!" he growled, and Kit winced slightly. _I know, I know, it wasn't the right time for a joke,_ she told herself, _but Maker, this is all so depressing. Emeric is beside himself over this Mharen, and I don't even want to tell Jethann about Ninette._

Fenris grabbed her by the arm. "We are sorry for your loss, and will be on our way," he said, firmly, pulling her out of the Gallows, away from the scowling templar. The clouds over Kirkwall began to open up, and fat droplets of rain started to fall as they rode the boat back from the Gallows to the docks.

As they stepped foot back on dry land, Fenris turned to her. "Are you truly mad?" he asked her angrily, irritated beyond all belief. "To walk into that place openly, with yet another mage in your company-" Anders stuck out his tongue at the warrior's back- "and antagonize one of the few Templars who doesn't _yet_ wish to lock you up?"

Kit, turned to face Fenris, saw Anders stick out his tongue at the warrior, and it was all she could do not to laugh in his glowering face. "All right, Fenris, I admit it wasn't the wisest thing I could have said. But Maker, it was getting so _dark_ and depressing and whatnot, and you know I have a bizarre sense of humor."

He released her and walked a few feet away, muttering something in Arcanum.

"Sorry?" she purred, not willing to admit how her blood heated when he spoke his native tongue to her. _Maker, he could recite a grocer's list in Arcanum and I'd be sopping wet by the time he was done._

"I said," came the irritated reply, "that you will yet be the death of me, mage."

"Isn't that amazing?" Anders spoke up, tone acerbic. "And here I thought you wanted all mages locked up. I suppose you're willing to make an exception for our Fearless Leader-"

Fenris turned around to glare at the blond man. "Despite the fact that she possesses no sense whatsoever, Hawke, at least, makes no deals with demons. I trust her to master herself, unlike you or the Dalish witch."

"So you would see us locked in the Gallows, or made Tranquil, despite the fact that we've saved your worthless hide numerous times?" came Anders' angry reply.

"In a heartbeat," Fenris said, hand coming up to the hilt of the sword he wore on his back.

Alarmed, Kit turned to see Anders flickering blue, teeth bared as he began to step slowly, menacingly towards the elf. "Oh, Andraste's burning tits," Kit muttered, and put a hand on Anders' chest. The rain was truly falling now, and she would have laughed at his bedraggled feathers, except for the fact that he was glowing with anger and ready to smite her broody elf.

"Anders- Justice," she corrected herself, "please, stop this. He didn't mean it-"

"I meant every word," came the clipped reply behind her.

"Shut up, Fenris!" she growled out, "You're not bloody helping."

She turned her attention back to the angry spirit in front of her. "Justice, he wouldn't turn you in, for my sake if nothing else. Fenris has protected us numerous times. Just...calm down, please." She saw the blue flicker as Anders fought for control and sighed with relief, catching him as he sagged in her arms. "Are you all right, Anders?"

He nodded, weakly, and she released him to whirl around. "And you," she said, advancing on the elf, "who do you think you are to threaten my friends? I helped you with those hunters three years ago, and again on the Coast not a month ago. I helped you with that Maker-be-damned Hadriana, _as_ did Anders, _as_ did Merrill."

He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. "I have not forgotten," he said in a low voice, eyes conflicted as she moved closer, poking an accusatory finger in his shoulder.

"Then act like it," she said, the rain slicking her short, dark red hair to her head, a lone droplet of rain running down the end of her nose. _Too close, too close, what the fuck am I doing,_ she thought, suddenly, realizing in her anger that her face was scant inches from his-

And then she thought nothing as all as he pulled her to him, his mouth scorching hers as the rain fell around them. One of them, or both of them, perhaps, let out a little moan, and as she sagged in surprise his arms came around her, holding her tightly to him.

The sound of a throat clearing loudly behind them brought Kit back to reality, and she pulled away slightly, breaking the kiss. Golden eyes met green as his slowly opened, and when he licked his lips she couldn't help the soft sound that escaped her. As he released her she brought up a hand to cup his cheek, briefly, her eyes speaking promises to him, _later,_ and she turned around.

Isabela was giving her a snarky grin, one eyebrow up in challenge as the rain soaked through her white corset. Anders was trying to look desperately at anything else.

"...Right," Kit said, clearing her throat. "Why don't we all go home, then."

Anders stalked off towards Darktown, waves of anger radiating from him, and Kit's heart twisted briefly. _I'm sorry, my friend._

Isabela gave her a grin as she walked by, swaying her hips enticingly. "I think I can find a sailor or two to help me with these wet clothes..." her eyes went dreamy and Kit could practically see the friend-fiction churning in her head as the rogue sashayed off in the direction of the Hanged Man.

Which left her and Fenris. Kit shivered as much from anticipation as cold, turning back to him.

He was facing away from her, head tilted towards the sky, letting the rain beat down onto his face.

"Fenris?" she said, softly, and he opened his eyes and turned to look at her.

"Would you have me go?" he asked, and Kit gulped. _Since Mother went to visit Carver, the house is empty; we could go home and draw a hot bath-_ her eyes nearly crossed at the thought. _Wait, Bodahn and Sandal, and Orana- dammit._

"Mother is visiting Carver and his new bride in Amaranthine," Kit replied, and the light that dawned in his eyes made her knees weak as he took a step toward her. "But it's almost suppertime, and Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana will be waiting."

The mention of the former slave girl stopped him in his tracks, and she cursed internally. "Would you like to join us for supper? We have plenty-"

"Do you think to add another slave to your household, then," he said, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Look, that was meant as a joke," Kit replied lamely. "I didn't really mean that slaves are useful. I mean, they probably are, but what I meant is that she's not a slave, I'm paying her. As a servant." He hadn't spoken to her for a week after that debacle.

A muscle worked in his jaw. "I stopped at your house the other day," he said, accusatory eyes burning into hers. "She bowed and scraped and called me 'Master.'"

"Yes, well, old habits, and whatnot." He glared. "You don't think I _asked_ her to call people that?"

"I don't know what to think about you half the time, Hawke," he replied tersely.

"I just thought that she needed a place to stay, somewhere to ease into the idea of being free, you know? If I'd handed her coin and patted her on the head she'd have been murdered or raped or put in manacles back to Tevinter that day. She doesn't know how to be free, yet." Kit hoped her heard the earnestness she was trying to inject into her voice. _Maker, I'm bad at being serious._

Fenris stared at her for one long moment before shaking his head. "Perhaps another time." Without another word he turned to go, and as he walked away towards his side of Hightown Kit cursed creatively to herself.

Neither of them saw the shadow in robes who stood in a darkened doorway, watching hungrily as Kit slicked the rain away from her cheekbones.

As she walked away, dejectedly, he ran a shaking hand over his own face, as if by touching his face he could touch hers.

"So perfect, my darling," he rasped out, quietly, then grinned, cunning madness in his eyes as he began to formulate a plan. His hand reached into a pocket of his robes, absently fingering the dry, dessicated petals of a white lily.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke receives a letter from Mother... and some lovely flowers.

A week later:

Kit sat at home, idly folding a stray letter into interesting shapes, the words fresh in her mind:

 _To my dearest daughter,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I write to you from Amaranthine with mixed feelings- Ferelden will always be, for me, the place where your father and I built a home and a life, and the familiar sights and smells are in their own way, comforting. Peaches sends her love, and although he'd never say it, your brother sends his as well._

 _Carver is grown and changed; joining the Grey Wardens has given him a sense of purpose and a calling, I suppose, although he confides in me that he is plagued with terrible nightmares. Finding Peaches once more seems to have offset the less pleasant aspects of his return to Ferelden, however, and overall he seems quite happy._

 _The Warden-Commander was in quite a state when Carver declared his intention to marry- apparently very few of the Wardens wed, and thus there was no provision of separate quarters for those with a household within the ruins of Vigil's Keep. But you know Carver, dearest- once he and Peaches found each other again, he was determined to remove every obstacle in the way of his happiness, and I'm pleased to say that the dwarf in charge of the rebuilding of the Keep has been charged with providing appropriate quarters for wedded Wardens._

 _I suppose it will be quite odd for them to have children pattering around what was once the last defense against the Blight, and honestly I worry for the safety of my grandchildren in such a place. I hear that the basements lead directly into the Deep Roads, and require constant patrols and monitoring to prevent the outbreak of darkspawn within the Keep itself._

 _But here I am, wasting ink on a mother's fond hope when Carver and Peaches have been wed for a mere month's time. I suppose I should wait for the arrival of actual grandchildren before worrying about their safety._

 _That being said, my dear, if you were to find a nice boy and settle down, your mother would not be at all averse to grandchildren in both Kirkwall and Amaranthine. I know you've yet to find any of the nobility to your liking, but really, dear, you've given them little chance to prove themselves. If you'd simply spend more time gettting to know people and less time out with those wild friends and elves of yours-_

 _Well, enough has passed between us on that point. I will say, however, that Seneschal Bran has a son about your age, and I hear he's quite the upstanding young man, not unlike his father. Such refined manners and language, our Seneschal._

 _I'm sure Lady Badcrumble would be more than happy to chaperone a tea between the two of you in my absence. Or perhaps you'd rather have tea with that lovely Prince Vael from Starkhaven? That would be quite a catch, dear- even without their ancestral holdings the Vael accounts with the Merchant's Guild are known to be impressive, and perhaps all the lad needs is a new start in Kirkwall?_

 _In any case, I plan to remain in Amaranthine until the end of the winter season, and look forward to seeing you once more in the spring. Take care, my dear, and know that I am always_

 _Affectionately, your mother._

********************************************************************************************************

"Seneschal Bran's son or the Vael," she groaned, folding the letter into neat little quarters. "The degenerate son of a degenerate or a priggishly reformed degenerate with Chant coming out his arse. Maker, Mother."

And of course, if she flat out told her mother about her feelings for a certain Tevinter ex-slave with no money, no prospects, and the bad fortune (at least by Hightown standards) to be an _elf_ , Kit would no doubt be dragged along to innumerable teas with a much longer line of "suitable" men. Grimacing at the thought, Kit folded the letter into a small, winged shape, throwing it into the room and watching idly as it soared.

At least until Rand jumped up from the rug, and with a small _snap_ of his teeth at the newest toy she'd so kindly provided, plucked the flying object neatly out of the air.

"Drop it!" she said, a slight sense of guilt pervading her, and he let go immediately with a chagrined look.

"It's all right," she replied, and he whined, apologetically, "It's just that ladies are supposed to tie their correspondence with pretty little bows and put them away into perfumed boxes." She stood from the settee and picked up the letter, admitting to herself with a silent snicker-

 _Actually, I think mabari drool and teeth-marks improves the content of this letter._

She turned at the knock on the door, and stuffing the letter in her pocket moved to answer it.

Pulling the door open, she was surprised to see a nondescript, rather unhealthy-looking older man holding a vase of white lilies. _Lilies?_ she thought, momentarily thinking of that whole lady-killer business with Emeric.

"Delivery for you, Miss Hawke," the man said with an odd little smile.

 _Maker, he seems to be touched in the head, poor old man._ "From whom?" she asked.

He leaned in. "I'm not supposed to say, but between you and me, it was a fellow over _that_ way-" he gestured in a westerly direction- "Elfish chap with interesting markings?"

 _Fenris,_ she thought, trying not to let an undignified squeal of delight escape, and taking the small bit of folded parchment, unfolded it and scanned the unfamiliar writing:

 _Hawke,  
I apologize for our last meeting- I'd like the chance to make it up to you. Come to my house, tonight._

He had such neat handwriting, for an ex-slave, she thought with a smile. _Perhaps he scribed letters for Danarius._ He'd never sent her a note before, and she found herself suddenly wanting to tie a ribbon around it, perhaps keep it in a scented box-

She shook her head.

The flowers were a bit odd, considering the association, but she had mentioned her bizarre sense of humor. Perhaps he thought it was romantic, sending her the same flowers used by the supposed killer.

She stifled a giggle. It was rather funny, actually. _Imagine the lady-killer of Kirkwall sending flowers to the one person who knows his methods._

She knew just what she'd wear, too- that flattering set of blue robes, but perhaps a bath, first-

 _Oh, Maker-_ she mentally slapped her forehead. _I was going to take that ring to Varric today. Well, I suppose a relatively quick jaunt to Lowtown won't hurt. I should have plenty of time to bathe and dress before nightfall._

The man continued to stand in front of her, staring a bit too intently, as those who were touched were wont to do. Kit fished in her pocket for a few silvers, and handing them to him, took the flowers and inhaled deeply. _Lovely._

"Thank you, ser," she said, absentmindedly, and as she turned to go, closing the door, she missed the look of triumphant cunning on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

Kit walked quickly down the steps to Lowtown and the Hanged Man, humming to herself, butterflies in her stomach. The sun was shining, weakly, and the view of the Waking Sea spread out before her, bounded in its narrow channel by the twin statues of Kirkwall, the many bridges, and the ever-present chains.

The relatively clear, cold weather meant that the air was sharp, crystalline, and as Kit gazed out across the ocean, she almost swore she could see the faint, broken outline of the large islands that sat on Ferelden's coastline, west of West Hill.

 _I wonder if the Blight reached the islands?_ She thought, idly, briefly entertaining the idea of Deep Roads filled with seawater, and darkspawn with fins, swimming around in the cold and dark like deadly sharks-

 _Well. That went from amusing to rather creepy quickly, didn't it,_ she thought, suppressing a shudder. Shaking off the odd mood the Tevinter statues evoked in her, Kit reached the bottom of the steps and headed confidently through the maze that was Lowtown, wending her way past vendors of cheap trinkets and street food of questionable origin and quality towards the Hanged Man.

Not quite a half hour later Kit arrived at the Hanged Man, nodding at Corff as she ducked inside the door. Adjusting to the relatively dim light, Kit noticed the usual crowd of dock workers and hardened drunks, nursing pint after pint, stretching their coin and the haze that dulled pain and loss as long as possible. That handsome but dissapated young man who kept claiming to one and all that he was a _Grey Warden_ of all things was still seated at his table at the back of the main room, his fingers twining around a leather cord holding what appeared to be a cracked silver amulet.

Kit shrugged inwardly and continued towards Varric's private rooms. _There are few people indeed who suffered no loss in the Blight, friend- time to go on with your life._ She remembered the odd look Anders had given him a while back. _Huh. Maybe he_ is _a Warden._

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Anders himself was lounging nonchalantly against Varric's doorframe, eyes alit with humor.

"-the 'marsh' part does cancel out anything else. Flowermarsh? Kittenmarsh? Nope, no good."

She hung back, hoping to hear a bit more about those mysterious Warden adventures he'd had, but with his usual uncanny ability to sense her he turned his head, catching sight of her. His eyes moved across her face, expression neutral, until they reached just above her ear, where she'd idly tucked one of the lilies, whereupon his expression darkened slightly, eyes whipping back to hers almost in accusation. Kit felt herself reddening slightly, and he pushed off from the doorframe, amber eyes nearly molten.

"Ah, you've got company," he gritted out. "I'll see you later." He brushed past her without acknowledgement, leaving a faint hint of that medicinal scent, feathers, and musk that was uniquely Anders,

Varric watched him go, eyes slightly sympathetic, before turning his attention back to Kit with a smile. "Hawke, what can I do for you?" he inquired lightly.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "What was Anders here for?" she asked, curiously.

"This is the best tavern in Kirkwall, Hawke," he said, gesturing grandly around. "As a favor to you, I put Blondie on my tab. He's got some stories about his days in Ferelden that sound implausible-" he snickered- "even to _me_."

His eyes warmed slightly with sympathy, and he continued, "He's not bad, for a mage. Crazy, but that's most everyone in this city."

"I thought he couldn't drink, what with his bright blue spirit nanny and whatnot," Kit said, tossing a hand airily.

"He can't get _drunk_ ," Varric clarified, "but a pint now and again goes a long way towards soothing heartache, and even the nanny can't object to him tucking away some of Corff's mystery stew." He eyeballed Hawke knowingly, and she flushed slightly.

"That's not my fault," she protested.

"I know, Hawke, but cut the fellow some slack- he can't help how he feels. Speaking of feelings, pretty flower you've got there- Broody finally decide to court you?"

Kit flushed again, a deeper shade of red, but brazened it out. No dwarf was going to make her blush and get away with it. "A note and flowers," she grinned, "and perhaps a candlelit dinner and wine."

Varric's eyebrows raised appreciatively. "Odd- I wouldn't have pictured Broody for the type- except for the wine, of course. Let me know how it turns out-" he waggled his eyebrows at her, along with a knowing grin- "Got to get the details of the Champion's life down for posterity."

"Use your imagination," she challenged back, "A lady doesn't kiss and tell, you know."

"That's a dangerous thing to say in my presence, Hawke," he countered, "considering what my imagination's capable of. Just let me know if he sweeps you off your feet or goes down on a knee with a ring, won't you?"

"Speaking of rings-" she fumbled in her belt pouch, glad for the change of subject, "I have something for you." She tossed it to him, glinting, in the air, before he caught it deftly. She watched his eyebrows climb as he took a closer look.

"My father's signet ring-" he tilted it into the flickering light cast by the lamp and fire, "Where did you find it? Bartrand pawned it off to pay for the expedition." He laughed quietly to himself. "I can't _believe_ you found it- this sounds exactly like the sort of fake thing I'd make up about you."

Warm eyes met hers, and she smiled deprecatingly. "I have my ways, Tethras. But I'm just glad I found it."

"Our mother was... well, no word adequately describes an old dwarven lady's rage." He thought for a moment. "Maybe now my contact at the gates of Orzammar won't ignore my letters."

He tossed it in the air, and caught it in one hand- and the next moment, held out his hand to her, empty.

"Ta-da!" she said, grinning at him. "You'll really have to show me how to do that one day, you know."

"As if you don't have enough magic of your own- no need to steal mine." He grinned back. "Anyway, I owe you one, Hawke- remind me to put you on my tab."

"Fair enough," she replied with a smile, "And I'll make sure to only drink Corff's finest stock from here on out." Varric groaned theatrically, putting one hand over his eyes in mock distress, and she laughed. "But as for tonight, if you'll excuse me," she purred, "I have to get home and ready for my evening in Hightown."

He made an exaggerated, courtly bow. "Enjoy yourself, Hawke, and bring Broody by sometime. He plays a mean hand of Wicked Grace."

Kit had already turned, and with a wave and a saunter, called over her shoulder, "Until later, Varric."

Kit hurried through the streets of Lowtown and began the long climb back towards Hightown, excitement jumping in her belly.

********************************************************************************************************

 _Nightfall-_

Kit stepped daintily out of the door, closing and locking it firmly behind her. She had bathed, langorously running a soapy hand over her body, between her thighs, and shivered with the thought that perhaps tonight another hand, dark and lyrium-lined, would trace that same path. She'd dressed with care in her corset, and placing a dab of scented oil behind her knees pulled silk stockings to her thighs. Next came her soft suede leather shoes, cut to flatter the shape of her foot, unlike the scuffed boots she normally wore traipsing around Kirkwall or the Wounded Coast, and placing another dab of scent at her neck and on her wrists, she shimmied into the fitted blue robes that set so well against her skin.

She had debated before tucking the lily back behind her ear. In some small way she felt as if she were marking herself, _his_ , as if to say, _take me, love me, I am yours_ in the same way that small scrap of red fabric he'd appropriated and wore at his wrist spoke to her. She bandaged a wound after a particularly brutal fight, tearing a piece of cloth off her hem, and had been surprised ever after to see him wearing it. Marked clearly with her house crest, it had stated more surely than words that the yearning she felt wasn't one-sided, and she wished with all of her might to give him the same giddy feeling of victory.

She stepped lightly across the square, heading towards the quiet western end of Hightown where he lived bold and fearless despite Aveline's repeated warnings. As she placed one foot on the stairs leading to his home, she heard a pained groan from the dark stairwell that headed in the opposite direction.

Pausing, Kit stood, torn. _I don't want to ruin this evening,_ she thought guiltily, but even as she prepared to walk away, she heard a weak voice call, "Help...please."

She peered into the darkness. "Ser?" she asked, uncertain, and took a few steps forward.

"Maker's tits," she breathed. It was the touched man from earlier, the one who'd brought the flowers, covered from head to toe in blood. He groaned weakly and she rushed the last few steps, clothing forgotten. "Hold on, ser," she said, "I'll help you. Just-" as she reached a hand towards him, she felt a dark, heavy presence descend.

 _What-_

And then he began to _glow_ , the blood on his body reaching out with grotesque tendrils that fastened onto her between one heartbeat and the next, resolving themselves into an invisible net of force that brought her to her knees, throat closed, unable to even whimper.

 _Blood magic_ \- she thought, thickly, and as he began to laugh, standing easily before her, a cloth came, covering her mouth, the sickly sweet scent of a sedative mixed with the bitterness of essence of magebane.

She felt her control over the Fade wane as surely as if the templars themselves drained her, and consciousness slipping, eyes closing, she heard him laugh. "Hello, my darling," he purred, his voice dissolving along with the light into utter dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Kit woke, slowly, her eyes nearly refusing to open, limbs near-numb and quiescent.  As her lashes fluttered, she felt a roughened hand smooth lovingly over her face.

"Awake at last, Serah Hawke?"  The voice echoed in the cavernous space, the quiet  _drip_  of water and the smell of fetid damp assaulting her senses.

Kit groaned thickly.  There was something-  _blocking_  her, hiding some vital part of herself that she couldn't quite remember or place, just out of reach, like Mother's china plate on the table, and oh, how angry Mother had been when she broke it, the white and blue glass in shards, little hands cut and bleeding as she whimpered from her hiding place behind the armoire.

And then her eyes were opening, sight bleeding in, and she could see him, that dark, grey man who'd delivered her flowers, the flowers Fenris had sent and he was waiting for her, she was late-

The fog cleared somewhat, and with the return of reason Kit suddenly realized she was bound, manacled to a table with a body-shaped depression below her.  She gasped as it came flooding back, the blood and the magic and this  _bastard_  had her tied to a table.

She let out a thin scream of rage when she realized he'd drugged her with magebane.

"Now, now, my dear, no need to get so upset," he chided, walking over and taking her chin in hand, forcing her to look him in the eye.

"What are you  _doing_ , you nug-humping, shit-eating, pitiful excuse for a  _MALEFICAR_ -"  Her voice rose in volume with her fear, "I am the fucking Champion of Kirkwall, and if you fancy a relatively painless death you will  _let me go_  this instant!"  The last of the muzziness faded with her rage, and she found herself completely awake, bound, helpless, enraged and terrified, at the mercy of this dark man.

He slapped her, hard, then pulled back his hand immediately as if it had burned.  "I didn't mean to strike you, darling," he whispered, "I'd never mark your beautiful face, not ever, but she was saying such filthy things with your beautiful mouth-" he trailed off, a finger stroking comfort into her slightly reddened cheek.

Kit whimpered in fear before she could stop herself.

"There, there, my darling," he rasped, "I'm here, and this time I'm  _never_  letting you go.  I've found you, all of you, at long, long last- I wanted it to be in time for our anniversary, darling, but I was late, I'm so, so sorry."

Kit turned her head away from the madman and his frenzied promises, and as her head tilted something came into view.  It was another table, like this one, and there were things on it, pale, formless shapes that refused to resolve-

When she saw the delicate white toes, slightly greened with their preservation but otherwise immaculate, and realized that they led to a  _leg_ , not a whole person, just a  _leg_ , her soft keen became a breathless wail, her chest too tight for the breath it trapped as she tried, and tried, and tried to scream.

********************************************************************************************************

Fenris paced around his room restlessly.  He'd been thinking about her all day, had been able to think of little else, and after he'd sharpened his greatsword, polished and oiled it to a fine sheen, mended a minute tear in his armor, and paged idly through the illustrations in one of the books left behind in the mansion for the hundredth time he could think of nothing more to do.  He wouldn't go to her house, not yet- he wasn't ready to contemplate what could happen,  _would_  happen if the tension between them combusted in any place with a private room and a bed nearby.

No, it was far safer to head to the Hanged Man- perhaps Hawke was there even now, trading witticisms with Varric or drinking a pint with Isabela, and if he just happened to wander in, well, it  _was_  the best bar in Kirkwall, after all.

Having made his decision, Fenris pulled on his armor and strapped the sword to his back without a second thought, walking determinedly from the steps in Hightown to the Hanged Man.  After a brisk walk through the rapidly cooling night air (and the uncomfortably chill paving stones, although he'd never admit it to anyone else) he pushed open the door to the Hanged Man.

Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light, he stepped forward, then stopped as he heard a chorus of disappointed groans.  He turned to see Varric slumped over a table, head held theatrically in his hands, Isabela shaking her head in disgust as she tossed back another shot.

"What?" he said, curtly.

Varric groaned again and raised his head from the table.  "Bloody hell, Broody, this  _has_  to be some kind of record, even for you.  It's barely an hour past dusk."

Fenris just looked at him.  "I fail to see what you're getting at, dwarf."

Isabela clucked disapprovingly.  "Don't try to pretend, Sweet Thing, she was in here earlier crowing to Varric about tonight.  I  _can't_  believe you've screwed it up already."

Fenris was starting to feel irritated.  "If you think this is some sort of clever joke-"

Varric looked over, concern spreading across his face.  "Is she sick?  Did she call it off, then?"

Fenris growled, rapidly losing patience.  " _Who_  and  _what_  are you referring to, Varric?"

Isabela rolled her eyes.  "We know, Fenris.  You, Hawke, romantic flowers, candlelit dinner, wine, mind-blowing sex- at least that's what was _supposed_  to happen before you ruined it."

Fenris goggled at her.  "Are you drunk, Isabela?"

"Are you?" she countered.

Varric held up a hand.  "Broody- Hawke came in her earlier with a flower in her hair and a crazed glow in her eye- she said you'd sent her flowers and a love-note inviting her to dinner at your place."

Fenris' eyes narrowed.  "That's not amusing, dwarf."

Isabela looked back over, a tiny wrinkle furrowing her brow.  "Wait- you  _didn't_  send a note?"

Fenris looked at her, face coloring with faint shame.  "I have never learned to read," he said, stiffly.  "I sent no note."

Varric's eyebrow shot up in disbelief, and a moment later, he shoved back the chair and stood up with the foulest curse they'd ever heard him utter.

Isabela and Fenris both looked at him in surprise- if they didn't know better, they'd have said the dwarf looked  _enraged._

"Varric...?" Isabela prompted.

"A lily," he gritted out, one hand reaching up to stroke Bianca.  "She had a fucking white lily in her hair."

" _Merda_ ," Fenris hissed, a frisson of rage pulsing through him, spilling blue as he whirled and headed for the door.

"Wait-" Varric said, suddenly.

Fenris snarled wordlessly.  She was out there, in danger, perhaps in the hands of a mad killer  _this very moment_ , and he would tear Kirkwall apart stone by stone to find her.

"'Rivaini, head to Darktown and find Blondie.  I'll get men searching immediately- see if anyone saw her.  Broody, head up to Hightown and check her house, then check yours- perhaps this is someone's idea of a sick joke and she's waiting for you.  I'll get her uncle and then head to the Viscount's Keep to get Aveline."

"Get her uncle- but forget the Viscount's Keep.  It's too late for anyone to be working," Isabela said.

Varric gave her a skeptical glance.  "This is  _Aveline_  we're talking about, Rivaini."

Isabela conceded the point.  "Meet at Fenris' place in a half-hour?" she confirmed, and the three of them headed out the door.  Once outside, Fenris broke into a run, heading for Hightown with all the speed he could muster.

 _Hold on, Hawke._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the last part! Yay!
> 
> Sorry it's a bit longer than the others, but I wrote it in one go and don't feel like breaking it up into smaller chapters.
> 
> Also, the idea of Hawke losing an eye was the inspiration for this fill, and inspired in turn by Florence + the Machine's "Girl With One Eye."
> 
> Plus, Leandra died during All That Remains. If Hawke is taking her place, it just didn't seem right to let her walk away with nary a scar. Plus it gave me the chance to confront Fen's self-image, which due to in-game comments I suspect is pretty twisted.
> 
> They can both heal together, hehe <3
> 
> Bonus points if you caught the movie reference- I watched it for the first time this past week :)

The keening wail that refused to become a scream cut off abruptly when he touched her, a finger caressing her cheek.  "Shh," the mage whispered, "It will all be over soon, my darling."

Kit swallowed, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, taking in one small breath, then another, deliberately, until the iron bars on her chest loosened.

"Ser," she said, trying to keep her tone level, reasonable, "I don't know who you think I am, but I'm sure you have the wrong person.  Just-" _LetmeupletmegoIneedtogetawayawaywayRUN_ \- "just let me go, please.  I've done nothing to you, ser," she finished, voice strained with effort as she bit back the animal fear.

He turned and looked at her,  _really_  looked at her, and the madness in his eyes cleared for a moment, replaced by an unshakeable sadness.  

"I know who you are,  _Katinka_ ," he said, and Kit blinked to hear her full name, so rarely spoken, from this mad stranger's lips.  "I know  _everything_  about you- your brother, your uncle-" he paused, "your mother."

He moved and picked up a small, sharp blade; as the light gleamed off of the polished steel he continued.  "Do you know, I'd wanted her for my work- I followed her for days, weeks, listened to every conversation at a market stall, watched her talk with your little house dwarves.  I've even made deliveries to your house, before, taken coin from her hand, spoken to her."

Kit felt an iron-hot streak of  _rage_  flow through her, and she found her fists clenched tight in their restraints.

"But then she had to go to Ferelden to see your Blighted brother, Katinka, and I simply couldn't wait any longer.  But you-"

He turned his eyes, full of madness and desire and an odd satisfaction- "You'll do, my dear.  The perfect face, the perfect body- well, except for a few changes.  But don't worry, darling, we'll get to that in a moment."

He petted the blade of the knife, running a finger along the back as if it were a beloved pet.

"I don't know what you're trying to do here," Kit said, desperately, "But whatever you want, I won't do it.  You'll have to kill me or let me go."  Her eyes moved to the limbs on the table, the feet and legs with their greenish hue, the cold, still arms, bloodless and chill like the limbs of a macabre doll, the jar with its floating orbs-

She felt bile rise in her mouth when she realized they were  _eyes_.

"Oh, you'll do it, my dear- you have no choice in the matter.  And soon, darling, soon, we'll be together again- not even death can keep us apart."

He cut her robes from her with deft, sure movements, and soon she was naked and shivering, bare before his disinterested gaze.  His eyes roved over her as if he were inspecting a side of pork, checking here and there for quality.  When his eyes settled on the meat of her thigh, when he stopped chewing his lower lip and nodded to himself, once, Kit couldn't stop the terrified whine that escaped her throat.

And then, he began to cut, and the whine became a scream, echoing through the cavernous dark of the sewers in unending agony.

********************************************************************************************************

Fenris arrived in Hightown out of breath, legs aching with the strain of the climb from Lowtown.  He pushed it to the back of his mind, to the place where he kept the pain of his markings, the place where he said  _I acknowledge you, but you are unimportant._   He'd made good time- barely five minutes had passed in a climb that usually took fifteen, and struck by sudden inspiration, he loped over to the Hawke estate.  The door was locked- he paused for a moment before phasing his hand through the door, and when he was sure he was far enough he focused, wrist still in that odd place between reality and Fade, fingers and palm now firmly in this world, and felt around for the locking mechanism.

 _There-_

He flipped the lock and pulled his hand through with a grimace- he didn't enjoy using these bizarre abilities- it made his skin crawl to know that with every phase he was venturing into the realm of magery, bending the Fade to his will as if he, himself were a Magister.

Pushing the door open, he walked in, calling for Rand.

He took a few minutes to tersely explain the situation, as much to the eerily intelligent mabari as to the rudely awakened house dwarves, Orana standing to the side, hand over her mouth in abject horror.

"Can you find her?" he said to Rand, and with a  _whuff_  the dog nodded (Fenris would've scoffed at the idea, but with no little bit of disbelief he saw it, the hound did in fact, nod) and giving Fenris a look as if to say  _Keep up, idiot,_  he gathered powerful muscles, walking, then trotting, then transitioning into a ground-eating lope as he bounded out of the mansion, nose to the ground, ears intent.

Fenris followed, pulling the door closed before giving chase to the determined mabari.

As they neared his side of Hightown, the dog slowed, nosing up the steps that led to Fenris' mansion before turning to the stairs leading down.  His hackles rose and Fenris heard the dog give a low, threatening growl before pacing down to the landing, circling uneasily around a dark spot on the ground.  

Fenris felt an answering growl in his own throat as he realized the patch was blood.

The clatter of footsteps and huffing breath behind him heralded the arrival of Hawke's comrades, and he turned to see Varric, Isabela, Aveline, and Anders approach.

Fenris walked up the stairs, acknowledging their presence.  "Well?" he gritted out.

"Gamlen is giving her description to my guards and helping them search Lowtown and Darktown," Aveline replied, concise as always.  

"Poor sod is nearly out of his mind with worry- it's more than I'd've given him credit for," Varric added grudgingly.

"Did you-" the mage huffed, clearly out of breath, hair mussed and clothes askew- it was clear that he'd been catching some measure of sleep when Isabela'd arrived- "Find anything?"

The mabari let out another low growl and bounded further down the steps, intent on the trail.

"Blood," Fenris answered, anger flowing through him like pain and lyrium.

Anders put out a hand, the soft blue glow as he chanted and focused his will into the Fade bringing a prickle of sensation along Fenris' arms, far too intimate for comfort.

"Mage," he growled, and then the blood  _reacted_ , a sickly red glow emanating.

Anders bit off a curse.  "Blood magic," he said, the deeper hint of Justice in his voice, and the group turned nearly as one to follow the impatiently waiting mabari.

********************************************************************************************************

Kit screamed again, throat raw and painful, but which in no way matched the intense agony around her thigh.  Her back arched as he cut, again, knife parting flesh before he  _pulled_ , hands parting the wound before allowing a trickle of healing magic to flow into the upper meat of her thigh.

"Can't have you bleeding out, my love," he'd said offhandedly when she'd screamed, begged to understand why he was  _cutting_  then healing then _cutting_  again, the seperated and half-healed flesh becoming a crescent moon around her leg, ever deeper, as if he were finding the core of her, peeling away the layers of her leg to the bone.

He cut, again, and the scream bubbled up, hoarse and uncontrollable as she tensed.

He healed, and she sobbed, the cascade of tears down her face, the fluid that ran from her nose, the spit that dribbled from her mouth as she gasped and babbled and begged and it was beginning again and he was  _cutting-_

She screamed, helplessly.

He stopped for a moment, a blood-stained hand leaving a streak of crimson at his temple, in his hair, as he panted, teeth clenched in victory and determination.  He patted her shoulder comfortingly before walking over to a wine bottle, and leaving bloody fingerprints on the label he poured himself a glass.

"Why," she whispered, when the agony retreated, "why-"

"It's for you," he said, calmly, before taking another swallow, then grimacing and setting down the glass, "It was always for you."

"Stop," she begged, voice broken as he approached, taking up the knife, "please, stop, stop, stop STOP-"

He was cutting again, intently, and as Kit lay back against the table she listened, quietly, calmly, to the crying and screaming.  It went on and on, the pained wail of someone pushed past all limits, and as the healing and the cutting and the healing and the cutting continued she smiled, the little ghost in her mind putting out a hand in comfort as she recognized the voice as her own.

********************************************************************************************************

Rand led the group to a foundry in Lowtown, the minuscule spatters of blood no difficulty for the acute senses of a mabari.  Aveline muttered a curse as they approached the forbidding double doors.  "We were here before," she said in a low voice, shaking her head in frustration as they pushed on the locked entrance.

Anders pushed them aside, and with a hint of blue in his eyes, he gestured with his staff, head bowed, chanting.  The door began to glow, the hardened steel giving off a heat that the group could feel from a distance, and then, with a single, snapped word, he pulled and threw his hand outward-

The door went from blistering heat to bitter cold in an instant, and all of them heard the  _crack_  of brittle metal pushed beyond its tolerances.  Locking mechanism and the very frame of the doors bent and snapped, they hung stubbornly, drunkenly, a slight gap taunting them.  Aveline pulled Wesley's shield from her back, and with a shouted cry, slammed the shield up against the door with all of her weight and strength.

The doors popped open with a  _shriek_  of metal, and no sooner were they open then the group was inside.  

"Wait," Varric hissed, and they all paused as he bent to the floor, a suspiciously bright square in an otherwise dirty area hinting at a pressure trap. 

"Rivaini," he called, and she was at his side in an instant.

He lifted the pressure plate up and away from the mechanism, the simple spring mechanism underneath no match for the deft fingers of the pirate.  Within moments, she'd analyzed and found the correct, taut metal wire that held the thing together, indicating it to Varric with a gesture.

He set the plate aside and pulled out some strange dwarven mixture, painting it on the wire with care.  Within moments the mixture began to spark and sizzle, eating away at the metal wire as if it were paper aflame.  When the wire snapped with a dischordant  _twang_ , the group waited anxiously for a moment to see if flaming death were forthcoming.  When all remained quiet, Varric stood and dusted his hands, sharing a grin of satisfaction with the pirate.

"What?" he said, turning to face the rest of the group.  "Child's play."

Fenris shook his head, remembering one particular incident-

"I see that look on your face, Broody," Varric complained.  "It was  _mostly_  defused- I only missed that one cache of acid.  And I  _told_  you that eyebrow would grow back, and it did!  No harm done!"

Fenris rolled his eyes and followed the mabari up the stairs.

********************************************************************************************************

He was taking another of those interminably long breaks- the breaks that let her come back to herself, that let her  _feel_  again, think again, beg and plead and cry again.

 _Enough._   

She watched him take another sip of his wine, hands, face and clothes covered in her blood.

She watched, and watched, unblinking.  His eyes met hers, and he grimaced.

"Stop looking at me," he ordered.

She watched.

He grew visibly agitated.  "Stop it," he hissed, taking a few steps to her, hand curling into a fist.  "Stop looking at me like that."

She watched.

Fury suffused his features.  "STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT," he bellowed, hands shaking.

She watched, and waited, until with an agonized cry he snapped.

"Fine," he hissed, walking over to the table with its collection of parts, doll parts, for the macabre doll he was creating out of flesh and blood and magic and death.  He picked up the jar with its floating green orbs, cradled them before gently pulling off the waxed seal, the cork stopper.

"We'll just have to do this first, and then you won't look at me like that," he hissed, and setting the jar down he took up his knife.

When he took his place at her head, bypassing the ruin of her thigh, a finger caressing a cheek before moving up to her eye-

And then that finger was prodding, drawing a pained gasp from her as he  _dug_ -

********************************************************************************************************

They'd found the trapdoor, moved into the decay and dank that was the bowels of Darktown, searched around corners as the mabari had whined and growled in fear and confusion.  The scents were too garbled- too much blood and too much the scent of the killer in one place, and so the group found themselves moving defensively through the tunnels, the drip of damp and the smell of death all around them.

They'd found two of the bodies, or what was left of them, and the desecration, the missing eyes, the severed limbs had made Fenris shake with an odd mixture of fury and fear.

 _If that bastard harmed her-_

They paused briefly in a room that contained an odd mix of furnishings, Anders examining a few books and letters with a rapidly deepening scowl, Aveline's eyes moving from the Amell shield tossed on the floor next to a chest to the hanging portrait which bore an uncanny resemblance to both Hawke and her mother.

They started as a garbled, incoherent, high-pitched scream of protest rent the air from the tunnels below.

Fenris' markings flared to life as his perceptive elvhen ears picked up something the rest of them could not- the scream subsiding into an all-too familiar voice, sobbing, begging, before building in pitch and tone to another desperate scream.

He was running, and he didn't remember having started to move, but the ground disappeared under his feet, and he was pulling his sword off his back, markings pulsing with rage, the shouts and the pounding feet of his companions behind him-

And then they were there, in the room, and there she was, naked and bleeding on the table, her normally tan skin ashen, a ruin of red around one thigh, and the murderer was standing over her, knife in one hand, cradling something else in the other-

He whirled at their approach, dropping the object, and as Fenris charged, mouth open in a wordless scream of rage, he saw the small, white orb fall from the mage's hand to the ground.

********************************************************************************************************

It was over in minutes, the mage and his skeletons, bodies reconstituted with that darkest of magics no match for their group.

Fenris dropped his sword, panting as he stumbled from the corpse of the mage over to to the table.

"Hawke," he whispered, fingers fumbling with the bindings that held her.

She was so pale, covered in blood, soft little whimpers of pain coming unceasingly from her throat.  

And then Anders was there, pushing them aside, a single soft sound coming from his throat as a healer's eyes took in the damage to her leg, the empty, bloody socket of her eye, and then he was focusing, eyes closed as magic washed over them.

Fenris gripped one of her hands in his own, the metal of his gauntlet and his bare, lyrium-striped palm holding hers.

"Anders," Isabela choked, holding a small, white orb out to him, "Can you-"

He shook his head, not bothering to answer.  

Isabela set the small bit of flesh carefully on the table, helplessly, revulsion making her want to fling it far, far away, but it was Hawke's  _eye_  and she couldn't-

Within moments the healer slumped slightly.  "The socket is healed," he said in a tired voice, shaking hands moving to her leg.

"Mage," Fenris rumbled, "Can you do this?"

"I don't have any lyrium potions on me," Anders said, shaking, "And my own connection to the Fade is nearly depleted.  Without more lyrium it'll have to wait until we carry her back, but I don't know what kind of damage the tissue will suffer if I don't heal her  _now_ -"

Fenris moved to grip one of the mage's hands, trying not to think about what he was doing.

"Use my markings," he rasped, and Anders' eyes went wide.  "You want me to channel the Fade through you?  The smallest of magics has you wincing-"

"It is-" he gritted his teeth- "their purpose.  Better that they are used to heal Hawke."

Anders nodded, slowly.  "Hold onto something, then," he said, shortly, "because this is going to hurt like the Void-"

And then the mage  _focused_ , and pulled, and as the Fade moved through him, Fenris' back bowed, mouth open in a rictus as every nerve screamed with otherworldly fire.

He'd dropped Hawke's hand, and as he trembled, gauntlets digging into the wood of the table, tearing gouges and splinters, the room bathed in lyrium blue as the mage pulled, and focused, and healed, and  _pulled_ -

Fenris made no sound, but Hawke was screaming faintly on the table, sweat beading on Anders' forehead.  "I'm sorry," he whispered, brow furrowed, "but he healed it, and I have to re-open it to knit the flesh back together-"

After what seemed like an eternity, the flow of the Fade suddenly  _stopped_ -

The two men slumped to the floor, the faint, almost neat scarring around Kit's thigh the only visible sign of injury, her whimpers silenced.

Varric hurriedly shrugged off his duster and threw it over Kit as she began to shiver, her body's resources strained by both healing and blood loss.

Isabela unlocked the last of the irons that held Kit to the table, and Aveline stepped forward, pulling Kit to a seated position where she and Isabela wrestled and buckled Varric's coat onto her.  The two women hoisted the nearly unconcious mage between them while Varric helped Fenris to his feet before turning and offering a hand to the blond mage struggling to regain his footing.

The group made their way slowly, painfully back to Hightown.  Once they'd made it back to the mansion, Anders collapsed on a settee as Hawke was carried up to her bed, Fenris following, on his last legs as he watched Orana tenderly pull the cover up around Kit's shoulders, the elf's face stricken with tears at her mistress' condition.

Fenris pulled off his armor and collapsed into a stuffed chair, letting the exhaustion and the memory of the agony slowly drain away.

"Messere?" came a small, insistent voice at his elbow.  "Shall I prepare a guest bedroom for you?"

"No," Fenris replied shortly, eyes stubbornly closed.

After a moment the dwarf huffed, and within moments the room was empty but for the crackle of the fire, the unconcious mage on the bed, and him.

The warmth and exhaustion overcame him, and within minutes, he was asleep.

********************************************************************************************************

Fenris woke to the sound of small, nearly silent sobs, and opening his eyes, looked over to find a hint of sun streaming through the closed drapes.  His gaze fell to the woman on the bed, and limbs protesting, he stood and crossed to her side, kneeling by the bed.  "Hawke," he said, softly, "I am here."

"Don't-" came the muffled reply, "don't  _look_  at me, Fenris-" her sobbing intensified.

He brushed her hair off her face, gently but insistently pulled away the hands clinging to her face, and tilted her jaw.  "Look at me," he said, quietly.

And she did, one eye opening to look at him, one beautiful golden eye staring at him in agony, the other lid fluttering uselessly, the lashes stuck together with dried blood, the pink of healed flesh unable to hide the flat, empty socket.

He deliberately looked at it, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone while she sobbed, once, and let her see his lack of reaction.

A tear trailed out of her one good eye, and he met her gaze with his.

"I thought you were going to die," he rasped out, throat tight.  He stood and climbed on the bed, pulling her to him, holding her in his arms, her body warm, heart beating, the sound of her hitching breaths a reminder that she  _lived_.  

"You look at this body, this caricature of a being twisted in metal and scars and somehow you see  _me_ -" he continued, giving her this glimpse, finally, into the deeply held insecurity, into the disgust he felt for the marred lines of his own flesh.  "Why would I mind a few scars on the body of the woman I care for?"

She trembled at his words.  "Fenris," she said, "I-" her voice started to fall apart, and he held her, tightly, "I took a bath, and dressed in my best robes, b-because I wanted you to think that I was beautiful-" her voice wobbled at the end, and he turned, tipping her face up to his.  "You are," he breathed, and then captured her lips with his, kissing her, softly, holding her tightly, and he swore to himself that he would  _never_  let her go again.

When the kiss ended, he moved down on the bed, settling himself more comfortably, and pulled the covers over them.  "Go back to sleep," he ordered, and within minutes she relaxed, falling asleep, and moments later, he followed.

In the days to follow, when she woke in the night, writhing and screaming in remembered terror, he held her, arms around her as she sobbed out her fear.

When Isabela stopped by a few weeks later with a case of cheap wine and cards, conning them both into a game of Diamondback, cheating obviously and shamefully, he was there, watching her laugh unreservedly for the first time in days.  

When they'd drunk enough that the room whirled delightfully, the pirate produced an eyepatch, and handing it over with a flourish, proclaimed that they were both honorary pirates, now, and welcome at any time on the  _Siren's Call Two_  (never mind that said vessel was still completely imaginary), he watched as she picked up the object with a crooked little quirk on her mouth.

When he'd found her, a day later, adjusting the eyepatch before a mirror, he'd come up behind her and put his arms around her, and when she met his gaze in the mirror, sardonic and self-deprecating, he'd held back a bark of laughter as she gave him a grin and her best pirate "Arrgh!"

And if there were days when she stumbled and cursed, running into furniture that was closer than it appeared, days when she sulked and sat and refused to go anywhere, the pronounced limp the one other visible scar of her ordeal, there were also days when she laughed and smiled and sat on his lap in the Hanged Man, providing all manner of toothsome distractions ("Stop nibbling on my ear, woman!") when he was doing his best to divest Donnic and Varric of all their coin.  There were days when they helped people, found lost belongings and children, when their side triumphed and the evildoer perished.

It wasn't perfect, but they were alive and together, and that was enough.


End file.
